If only Birkin would form a close and abiding connection with her, she would be safe during this fretful voyage of life.He could make her sound and triumphant, triumphant over the very angels of heaven.If only he would do it! But she was tortured with fear, with misgiving.She made herself beautiful, she strove so hard to come to that degree of beauty and advantage, when he should be convinced.But always there was a deficiency.
He was perverse too.He fought her off, he always fought her off.The more she strove to bring him to her, the more he battled her back.And they had been lovers now, for years.Oh, it was so wearying, so aching;she was so tired.But still she believed in herself.She knew he was trying to leave her.She knew he was trying to break away from her finally, to be free.But still she believed in her strength to keep him, she believed in her own higher knowledge.His own knowledge was high, she was the central touchstone of truth.She only needed his conjunction with her.
And this, this conjunction with her, which was his highest fulfilment also, with the perverseness of a wilful child he wanted to deny.With the wilfulness of an obstinate child, he wanted to break the holy connection that was between them.
He would be at this wedding; he was to be groom's man.He would be in the church, waiting.He would know when she came.She shuddered with nervous apprehension and desire as she went through the church-door.He would be there, surely he would see how beautiful her dress was, surely he would see how she had made herself beautiful for him.He would understand, he would be able to see how she was made for him, the first, how she was, for him, the highest.Surely at last he would be able to accept his highest fate, he would not deny her.
In a little convulsion of too-tired yearning, she entered the church and looked slowly along her cheeks for him, her slender body convulsed with agitation.As best man, he would be standing beside the altar.She looked slowly, deferring in her certainty.
And then, he was not there.A terrible storm came over her, as if she were drowning.She was possessed by a devastating hopelessness.And she approached mechanically to the altar.Never had she known such a pang of utter and final hopelessness.It was beyond death, so utterly null, desert.
The bridegroom and the groom's man had not yet come.There was a growing consternation outside.Ursula felt almost responsible.She could not bear it that the bride should arrive, and no groom.The wedding must not be a fiasco, it must not.
But here was the bride's carriage, adorned with ribbons and cockades.
Gaily the grey horses curvetted to their destination at the church-gate, a laughter in the whole movement.Here was the quick of all laughter and pleasure.The door of the carriage was thrown open, to let out the very blossom of the day.The people on the roadway murmured faintly with the discontented murmuring of a crowd.
The father stepped out first into the air of the morning, like a shadow.
He was a tall, thin, careworn man, with a thin black beard that was touched with grey.He waited at the door of the carriage patiently, self-obliterated.
In the opening of the doorway was a shower of fine foliage and flowers, a whiteness of satin and lace, and a sound of a gay voice saying:
`How do I get out?'
A ripple of satisfaction ran through the expectant people.They pressed near to receive her, looking with zest at the stooping blond head with its flower buds, and at the delicate, white, tentative foot that was reaching down to the step of the carriage.There was a sudden foaming rush, and the bride like a sudden surf-rush, floating all white beside her father in the morning shadow of trees, her veil flowing with laughter.
`That's done it!' she said.
She put her hand on the arm of her care-worn, sallow father, and frothing her light draperies, proceeded over the eternal red carpet.Her father, mute and yellowish, his black beard making him look more careworn, mounted the steps stiffly, as if his spirit were absent; but the laughing mist of the bride went along with him undiminished.
And no bridegroom had arrived! It was intolerable for her.Ursula, her heart strained with anxiety, was watching the hill beyond; the white, descending road, that should give sight of him.There was a carriage.It was running.
It had just come into sight.Yes, it was he.Ursula turned towards the bride and the people, and, from her place of vantage, gave an inarticulate cry.She wanted to warn them that he was coming.But her cry was inarticulate and inaudible, and she flushed deeply, between her desire and her wincing confusion.
The carriage rattled down the hill, and drew near.There was a shout from the people.The bride, who had just reached the top of the steps, turned round gaily to see what was the commotion.She saw a confusion among the people, a cab pulling up, and her lover dropping out of the carriage, and dodging among the horses and into the crowd.
`Tibs! Tibs!' she cried in her sudden, mocking excitement, standing high on the path in the sunlight and waving her bouquet.He, dodging with his hat in his hand, had not heard.
`Tibs!' she cried again, looking down to him.
He glanced up, unaware, and saw the bride and her father standing on the path above him.A queer, startled look went over his face.He hesitated for a moment.Then he gathered himself together for a leap, to overtake her.
`Ah-h-h!' came her strange, intaken cry, as, on the reflex, she started, turned and fled, scudding with an unthinkable swift beating of her white feet and fraying of her white garments, towards the church.Like a hound the young man was after her, leaping the steps and swinging past her father, his supple haunches working like those of a hound that bears down on the quarry.
`Ay, after her!' cried the vulgar women below, carried suddenly into the sport.
